


a lightning storm at the end of your fingertips

by NotPersephone



Series: Count and Countess Lecter [5]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hair Braiding, Thunderstorms, happy marrieds in Lecter Castle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 15:35:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13504515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: Now Hannibal looks her at with a smile, his nibble fingers tracing the line of her hair, which is tousled and wild, almost an image of the weather brewing outside. He gently brushes the unruly strands off her forehead, while his eyes assess the damage with quiet purpose.





	a lightning storm at the end of your fingertips

It is like a scene from a baroque painting; the room half bathed in illumination as the light seeping through the window catches on the cream canopies, half covered in growing dark, rising from the corners and expanding up the walls. The white silk of the discarded robe gleams against the dark floor like whitecaps on a sea. Sprawled across the bed, Bedelia stretches herself slowly, lengthening her muscles, aching in the most delicious of ways. Pressing her toes against the sheets, she relishes the feel of cool material against her still heated skin, blushed pink against white cotton. She can almost see the composition on canvas; a befitting comparison, Bedelia reasons, considering a drawing of her in a similar state of dishabille adorns one of the walls of the bedroom.

Reaching for a nearest pillow, she turns to lie on her stomach with her arms resting comfortably on the feathery support. Her head faces the window and the natural spectacle taking place outside the confinements of the castle walls. The wind reverberates from a distance, like an approaching river, sending flurries of leaves flying in chaotic spirals through the air, increasingly bewildered with each passing minute.

There is a storm coming and Bedelia finds herself looking forward to witness is.

But not as much as Hannibal did. The prospect of an approaching storm put him in the most jovial of moods. As Bedelia listened to the news and the weather warning, looking out the window at the still perfectly blue sky, Hannibal cancelled all the today’s plans in a split second: their visit to Vilnius and the housekeeping staff due to arrive during their absence.

He then joined her in the bedroom, just as the first gusts of winds were awaken. His eyes surveyed the grounds outside, watching the trees’ reluctance to submit to the press of the air while his hands rested on her waist.

“Are you sure the storm won’t pass?” Bedelia asked as her gaze followed his. First clouds began to amass, but it looked like nothing more than a regular day with a chance of rain.

“I do not know, but it is safer here. We can visit the capital any time,” Hannibal murmured against her hair, his fingers already undoing the sash of her robe and pulling her with him, back to bed.

She did not argue, her hands mirroring his and finding skin in an eager caress. Any city could wait, she had everything she wanted right here.

Now the sky turns cobalt dark, clouds heavy and charged, ready to break.

Bedelia had always liked thunderstorms, even as a child. It was beautiful and frightening at the same time. She remembered her childhood summer in a French countryside, when her mother chastised her for leaving the house during the storm. She was always drawn to things that other people didn’t understand. Neither did she, but it had never stopped her from wanting to know them.

As the wind surges outside, the bedroom remains quiet and still. It is not the first time that Bedelia feels as if suspended in time, outside the realms of reality. And she adores that feeling, a brief conclusion passes through her unwind mind, making her smile as she stretches once more, like a languid feline, contended in every way.

The silence of the room is broken by a single clink of a porcelain cup being placed on a saucer. Bedelia senses a shift in the mattress and broad hands envelop her hips with a familiar warmth, thumbs skimming over her behind. Firm lips soon follow as Hannibal slowly kisses each of her buttocks, before biting them playfully. Hard enough to make her sigh, but not hard enough to leave a mark. Not this time anyway. But she should be the last person to comment on his desire to mark her, Bedelia thinks as she turns to look at him. Two fresh crimson blotches are clearly visible above his clavicle and she knows that he will wear the marks with adoring pride. She cannot help but smile as she meets his eyes, still twinkling merrily with a hint of mischief behind the dark irises. The shadow of a smile continues to curve her lips as she reaches her hand out slowly, fingers lengthening expectantly, and Hannibal leans forward at once, meeting her lips with a kiss. Bedelia savours the kiss, tasting cinnamon on his tongue. She licks her lips, enjoying the added condiment. Their usual coffee was infused with a combination of spices today, Hannibal’s way of catering to her taste for sharp flavours, but also ensuring she remains warm, not that it was necessary. His other methods have always proven extremely _effective_.

Knowing Bedelia’s other penchant, the coffee was accompanied by freshly baked palmiers, perfect golden swirls sprinkled with sugar and begging to be tasted. She would frown at his constant eagerness for her to indulge in sweet treats if his offerings weren’t so mouth-watering. And no matter the temptation, her biggest weakness is the man who makes them with such affection.

Now Hannibal looks her at with a smile, his nibble fingers tracing the line of her hair, which is tousled and wild, almost an image of the weather brewing outside. He gently brushes the unruly strands off her forehead, while his eyes assess the damage with quiet purpose.

“Allow me to neaten it,” he says as his fingers continue to trace the length of her hair, almost like a stylist deciding on his next creation.

“Well, you ruined it in the first place,” she states with pretended seriousness. The fingers pause for a moment before resuming their work.

“Because you told me to,” Hannibal responds in the similar tone, but his eyes crinkle as he finds it hard not to smile at the recollection.

Bedelia narrows her eyes and gives him a kittenish smile. She did.

She lies on her stomach once more, allowing him better access, and reclines her head on her forearms in silent anticipation.

Hannibal sits beside her, his hands now gently gathering her hair together and letting it rest on her back. His fingers comb through the strands, slower than necessary and longer than required. Bedelia closes her eyes and sighs quietly, feeling her nerve endings pleasantly awakening with each brush of his fingertips.

Finally, he divides her hair into three sections and begins to cross them. His movements are unhurried and delicate, not once tugging the strands. Bedelia keeps her eyes closed, relishing the tender caress and listening to the wind rumbling outside.

Suddenly, the hands stop.

“Your hair has gotten longer,” Hannibal comments, attempting to keep his voice casual, but she can hear the elation shadowing his words and senses the stirring excitement in his hands at the prospect of adding another crossing to the braid.

Bedelia smiles into the pillow. Although she has made enquires and found a suitable stylist, making good use of her improving Lithuanian and not involving Hannibal as to avoid the expected dramatics, she is yet to engage him. For now, she is happy to let her hair grow and have Hannibal take pleasure in it. And she does as well. It seems to flourish under his constant attention and care; her hair has never been stronger or looked better.

Hannibal finishes the braid, crossing her hair all the way down to the smallest of sections, as if unwilling to stop.

The clouds outside shatters at last, a dazzling claw of lighting streaks down the sky, almost startling Bedelia. The trees leap forward in the brilliance of the flash as another white line crosses the air. It resembles a vein, pulsating with life and primal power. It is soon followed by a thunder; low, booming noise coming from a distance, as though a massive object were ripped to pieces. Bedelia has never seen a storm like that. It was different in a city, hidden under the weight of the buildings, the force of nature was always diminished. But here, on the top of the mountain, it is raw and untamed. And exquisite.

“It feels like we are the only people in the world,” she says quietly, watching as the first heavy drops of rain fall against their window.

Hannibal shifts and stretches himself, lying next to her. One of his hands lingers on her back, fingers playing a glissando on the now completed braid, eliciting goose bumps, and liquid desire pools in her core once more. He always sets off a flare within her and she is filled with electric charge, equal to the storm outside. She wonders if he can see the flashes through her skin.

He looks at her with matching lightning in his eyes, his nose brushing hers, bursting another spark between them.

“We are.”

**Author's Note:**

> The headcanon: Hannibal likes to braid Bedelia's hair after sex, turned into a full fic. I should just rename this series "Loving in Lecter Castle", because that is essentially the content. Of all my stories, these are definitely the most self indulgent ones, but I just love to write little glimpses into their life here and focus on tiny details, because all of that creates a picture of their happiness. At least, I hope it does.


End file.
